Chapter 4: Claimed
The whispered yes came out of him before he could catch it, muffled into the sheet. Otis heard it anyway. The big man laughed low, a sound that vibrated through the mattress, through the narrator's chest where he lay pressed flat.
"That's my boy," Otis said. "That's what I wanted to hear."
The narrator's jeans were already gone, pooled somewhere on the floor. Otis had left his briefs on, and now he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and dragged them down slow, baring him inch by inch to the warm lamplight. The air hit his skin and he shivered. He felt exposed, laid open, smaller than he'd ever felt in his life.
Otis spread him with his thumbs, parting his cheeks, and the narrator heard him suck in a breath through his teeth.
"Christ," Otis muttered. "Look at you. Tight little thing, all pink and ready."
The narrator buried his face in the pillow. He'd done this before, but never like this. The one guy before had been gentle, careful, quick. Otis was none of those things. He could feel it in the way the man handled him, rough and sure, like he owned every inch of this moment.
"Breath out," Otis said.
The narrator didn't have time to obey. Otis's cockhead pressed against him, hot and thick, and then it pushed. The narrator cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the pillow. There was resistance, a burning stretch that seemed to go on forever, and then Otis pushed deeper.
"Fuck," the narrator sobbed. "Fuck, it's too much."
Otis held still. His hands clamped the narrator's hips, thick fingers digging into the soft flesh, and the narrator could feel him pulsing inside, enormous, filling him past what he thought he could take.
"You wanted this," Otis said, his voice low and patient. "You begged for it, remember?"
He did remember. He remembered the kitchen floor, Otis's cock in his throat, the promise that this would happen whether he could handle it or not. He nodded against the mattress.
"Then take it," Otis said. "Stay still."
He withdrew slow, almost all the way out, and the narrator whimpered at the sudden emptiness. Then Otis pushed back in, deeper this time, and the narrator's whole body shuddered. The stretch was agonizing, but there was something else underneath it, a heat building in his belly that made him clench around the thick intrusion.
Otis grunted. "Feel that? You're gripping me like a fist."
The narrator couldn't answer. He was too full, too aware of every inch of the big cock splitting him open. Otis started to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that dragged against something inside him that made his toes curl.
"There it is," Otis breathed. "There's that sweet spot."
He angled his hips and hit it again, harder this time, and the narrator gasped, a high, broken sound. His hands clawed at the sheets. Otis kept that pace, slow and punishing, each thrust driving deep and holding there before pulling back. The pleasure built in waves, mingled with the burn, until the narrator couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"More," the narrator heard himself whisper. "Please, Otis, please."
Otis laughed, a dark and knowing sound. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against the narrator's back, his breath hot against the narrator's ear.
"Please what?" Otis asked. "Use your words."
The narrator sobbed, tears soaking into the pillow. "Faster. I need faster."
Otis pulled almost all the way out, and for one terrible moment the narrator thought he was going to stop. Then Otis slammed back in, hard and deep, and the narrator screamed into the mattress.
"That's what you get for begging," Otis growled.
He started to pound in earnest now, his hips snapping against the narrator's ass with a wet, rhythmic slap. The narrator was lost in it, his body bouncing with every brutal thrust, his moans turning to sobs of pleasure. Otis's big hand came down on his ass, a sharp smack that made him cry out and clench around the cock inside him.
"You like that too?" Otis asked. "Filthy little thing, taking my cock and asking for more."
The narrator couldn't deny it. He was on fire, taken apart by a man twice his size, and every part of him wanted it. Wanted this. Wanted Otis to keep going until there was nothing left of him.
Otis grabbed his hips again, pulling him back onto his cock with each thrust, setting a rhythm that had the narrator dizzy. The slaps of their bodies filled the room, mingled with Otis's grunts and the narrator's desperate, breathless cries.
"I'm gonna take everything," Otis said, his voice rough and ragged. "Every last piece of you. You'll feel me for a week."
The narrator sobbed and nodded, unable to form words, his body surrendering completely. He was full, so full, his whole world reduced to the thick cock driving into him over and over. And when Otis shifted his weight, angled differently, and hit that spot dead on again, the narrator shattered, crying out as his body convulsed around the big man still fucking him.
He saw the darkness behind his eyes, a flashing smear of light, and for a moment the world tilted. His body was still shuddering, still clenching around the thick cock buried inside him, when Otis slowed. Not all the way, just enough to let the aftershocks ripple through him, and the narrator gasped, trying to catch his breath.
Otis pulled out. The sudden emptiness made him whimper, his hole clenching around nothing. Otis laughed, low and dark, and flipped him onto his back. The narrator's legs were pushed up, his knees pressed to his chest, and Otis loomed over him, slick with sweat, his chest heaving.
"You came already," Otis said, almost amused. "That's it? You're done?"
The narrator shook his head, breathless. "No. I just, I couldn't hold it. Please, keep going."
Otis grabbed his hips and slammed back in without warning. The narrator screamed, his back arching off the bed. Otis's cock was somehow even harder now, swollen thick, and the stretch was a fresh agony. He was too big. He was always too big. But the narrator's body was loose and slick, and Otis drove in to the root, burying himself completely.
"Yeah," Otis grunted. "Feel that? I'm all the way in. You're taking every inch, sweetheart."
The narrator sobbed, his hands fisting in the sheets. Otis started to move, fast and rough, slapping against him hard enough to rock the headboard. Every thrust drove him up the bed, and Otis pulled him back by the hips, never letting him get away.
"Otis," the narrator gasped. "Otis, please, slow down."
"Why? You feel amazing." Otis leaned forward, sweat dripping onto the narrator's chest. "You wanted this. You want me to stop?"
"No." The word came out broken, desperate. "Don't stop. Just, please, go a little slow. I can't take it like this."
Otis laughed and rode him harder. He was lost now, his hips snapping with a frantic, animal rhythm, his breath coming in harsh growls. The narrator's body bounced with every impact, his moans turning to high, keening cries that he couldn't hold back.
"Look at you," Otis said, his voice ragged. "Tight little cunt, begging me to go slow. But you're gripping me like you never want me to leave."
The narrator tried to answer, but his words dissolved into a moan as Otis hit that spot again, sparks behind his eyes. He was close again, the pressure building fast, his cock hard and leaking against his belly.
Please, let me cum, he started to say. But Otis read him, knew exactly what was coming. He stilled, buried deep, and the narrator wept at the sudden lack of movement.
"Not yet," Otis said. "Keep that hole open for me. You don't cum until I do."
"Otis, please. I need to. I'm so close."
Otis pulled out slowly, then slammed back in, making the narrator cry out. "I said not yet. You'll cum when I'm done with you, and not a second before."
He kept that pace, slow and agonizing, pulling out until just the head remained, then plunging deep. The narrator writhed, desperate, his prostate being teased and tortured. He was losing his mind.
"Otis," he sobbed. "Please. I'll do anything. Please let me cum."
Otis's hand shot to his neck, thick fingers wrapping around his throat, not squeezing hard but firm, a reminder of who was in charge. Otis leaned close, his face inches away, his eyes wild and dark.
"Bitch, take what you deserve." His voice was a growl, rough and raw. "I have never felt so heavenly. And you're gonna take every drop until I'm empty."
The narrator moaned, his eyes rolling back. Otis released his throat and grabbed his hips again, pounding into him with renewed fury. The room filled with the sounds of wet slapping and the narrator's desperate, broken pleas, all of them lost under Otis's animalistic grunts. He was close now, the narrator could feel it, the way Otis's thrusts turned erratic, his grip bruising.
"Stay open," Otis snarled. "Take it all."
The narrator spread his legs wider, arching his back, giving everything he had. His own orgasm was right there, coiled at the base of his spine, but he held it. He'd hold it forever if that's what Otis needed. Because he needed to see Otis fall apart, needed to feel that thick cock pulsing inside him, filling him.
"Please," the narrator begged. "Cum inside me, Otis. Please."
Otis roared, slamming in one last time, burying himself to the hilt. The narrator felt it, the hot flood of Otis's release spilling deep inside him, triggering his own climax at last. He screamed, his body convulsing, his own cock spurting between them. For a long moment they were both lost, tangled together, breathing ragged and broken.
Then Otis collapsed on top of him, heavy and warm, his face buried in the narrator's neck. The narrator's legs trembled, his hole still clenching around the softening cock inside him, holding it all in.
"That's it," Otis murmured, his voice sleepy and satisfied. "You're mine now."
"That's it," Otis murmured, his voice sleepy and satisfied. "You're mine now."
The narrator lay beneath him, trembling, still clenching around the softening cock inside him. He felt full, stuffed, marked. His own release was still throbbing through him, a fading pulse of heat.
Then Otis shifted, pulling out slowly, and the narrator whimpered at the loss.
"Otis," he breathed. "Can I cum again?"
Otis laughed, a low, rumbling sound against his neck. "No."
"What?"
"You can't cum. That's the rule." Otis propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "Why?"
"Because then you'll lose the heat. You'll be all soft and satisfied and you won't be able to give me the pleasure you just gave me." His hand traced down the narrator's chest, fingers circling a nipple. "I want to fuck you all night long."
The narrator shivered. He wanted that too. God, he wanted that so bad.
Otis rolled off him, and the narrator lay there for a moment, breathless and aching. The heat in his belly hadn't gone anywhere. It was coiling tighter, demanding release that he'd been denied.
"I need a shower," he mumbled, swinging his legs off the bed.
Otis caught his wrist, tugged him back. "Kiss me first. Cuddle me."
The narrator turned, finding Otis's mouth in the dim light. The kiss was slow, deep, nothing like the brutal fucking from moments before. Otis's hand cradled his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek, and the narrator melted into it.
They lay tangled together for a long moment, the narrator's head on Otis's chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Otis's hand traced lazy circles on his back.
"Go shower," Otis murmured finally. "I'll be here."
The narrator slipped out of bed, his legs unsteady. The bathroom was cool and dark, and he stood under the hot spray, watching the mess wash off his body. His hole ached, a deep, pleasant soreness. He thought about the night stretching ahead of him, and his cock twitched again.
He dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and padded back into the bedroom. Otis was asleep, sprawled across the mattress, one arm flung over his head. The narrator stood there for a moment, watching the big man's chest rise and fall.
He slid into bed, curling against Otis's side, his arms wrapping around the thick waist. He was warm, safe, and the narrator closed his eyes.
But he couldn't sleep.
The heat was still there, a low, thrumming ache between his legs. He'd been denied, told to hold it, and his body was screaming for release. He shifted, pressing closer to Otis, and felt the big man's cock stir against his thigh.
He wanted more. He needed more.
He pressed a kiss to Otis's shoulder. Then another, up the thick column of his neck. Otis stirred, a low sound rumbling in his chest. The narrator kissed his jaw, his mouth, and Otis's lips parted, answering him.
"Couldn't sleep?" Otis mumbled.
"No. I need you again."
Otis's eyes opened, dark and knowing. He rolled over, pressing the narrator into the mattress, and the narrator gasped at the weight of him. This time he was eager, hungry, his legs wrapping around Otis's waist before he was even asked.
Otis's cock pressed against him, still half-soft, and the narrator moaned. "Please, Otis. I need it."
Otis positioned himself, and the narrator felt the thick head pushing against his entrance. He tensed, a fresh stab of pain shooting through him.
"Oh, fuck," he gasped. "Otis, you're huge. You're hurting me."
Otis went still. He leaned down, pressing soft kisses to the narrator's neck, his collarbone, his chest. His hands stroked the narrator's sides, soothing, patient.
"Breathe, baby," Otis murmured. "Let me in slow. I've got you."
The narrator forced himself to relax, to open. Otis pushed forward, inch by agonizing inch, and the narrator clung to him, moaning against his skin. When Otis finally bottomed out, buried deep, the narrator sobbed with the fullness of it.
"That's it," Otis breathed. "My dick feels different inside you, doesn't it? Like it belongs there."
The narrator's eyes rolled back. "Yes. Fuck, yes. Use me, Otis. Please use me."
Otis didn't need to be asked twice.
He pulled back and slammed in, hard and fast, and the narrator screamed. "Fuck, you're so deep. You're an animal. Go slow, please, you're so big, it's hitting my womb."
"You're my slut," Otis growled, pounding into him. "You can't ask me to go slow."
The narrator was gone, completely subsumed. He wrapped his legs tighter, arching his back, taking every brutal thrust. He kissed and bit at Otis's shoulders, his neck, anywhere he could reach, moaning without shame.
"I want to cum, baby, please," he begged. "You're so hot, I can't control it."
Otis kept pounding, relentless. Then he reached over, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. The narrator saw the screen light up, the camera app opening.
"No, don't," he gasped. "Please, I'm not comfortable."
"It's just for us," Otis said. "Only you and me."
The narrator hesitated. Otis paused, lowering the phone. "I'll film you without your face. Just your body. Just how good you take my cock."
The narrator nodded, breathless. Otis set the phone up against a pillow, angled at the foot of the bed, and returned to him, sliding back inside with a wet, hungry sound.
"Act like my wife, bitch," Otis growled, his hips snapping. "Don't cum."
"Baby, look at me," the narrator moaned, gazing up at him. "I'm your wife. Fuck me. Use me."
Otis banged him harder, the bed slamming against the wall, the whole frame shaking. The narrator was lost, a puddle of need and pleasure, his own cock leaking against his belly.
"I want to cum on your face," Otis said suddenly.
"Otis, I've never done that before." The narrator's voice was small, uncertain. "Please, just make me pregnant. Fill me up."
"No. I want to see your face covered in my cum."
"But I haven't—"
"Please." Otis's voice dropped, soft and almost tender. "For me."
The narrator couldn't say no to that. Not when Otis said please.
Otis pulled out, and the narrator slid off the bed, kneeling on the floor. Otis stood over him, stroking his cock, his phone propped up to capture it all. The narrator almost forgot he was being filmed, lost in the sight of Otis looming above him, massive and slick.
Otis groaned, and hot, thick ropes of cum splattered across the narrator's face, painting him white. The narrator closed his eyes, feeling it drip down his cheeks, his chin, coating his lashes. Otis kept coming, and coming, until the narrator was a mess.
"Hold on," Otis said. "Don't move."
The narrator stayed still, let Otis capture the image, the proof of what he'd done. Then Otis knelt, kissing his forehead, gentle and reverent.
"Oh my god," the narrator whispered. "I feel like a complete slut."
"Yeah, you are." Otis smiled. "You're just shy about it."
"Can I cum now? Please?"
Otis laughed, exhausted. "Yeah. I'm tired now."
The narrator knelt on the floor, his face still dripping with Otis's cum. He started jerking his own cock, using his fingers to scoop some of the mess off his face, smearing it across his leaking tip.
"Suck my nipple," he begged, and Otis bent down, taking the hard bud between his teeth. "And shove your cock against my belly."
Otis pressed his softening cock against the narrator's stomach, and the narrator ground against it, rubbing himself off on the thick shaft. The sensation was overwhelming, the taste of Otis's cum on his lips, the sting of his throat, the fullness still in his ass.
His orgasm hit him like a freight train. He cried out, cumming hard, spurting across his own chest and belly, mixing with Otis's drying seed. His body shuddered and shook, and then he collapsed, spent.
Otis caught him, lifting him onto the bed. They lay tangled together, sticky and filthy, and the narrator was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
The morning light was harsh and painful. The narrator blinked awake, feeling crusted and dry. He reached up and touched his face, felt the dried cum flaking against his skin. His whole body was a mess, painted with dried seed, his hole aching, his throat raw.
Otis was propped up on one elbow, watching him with a lazy smile.
"Want breakfast, wife?"
The narrator laughed, a hoarse, broken sound. "Yes, husband."